


Technician

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Office, M/M, Office Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:06:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike never really knew what he wanted, but when he settles for a call-centre job and meets the IT tech Rob, he suddenly knows JUST what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Technician

hen you were a kid in the first grade you told your class you wanted to be a please-man and stop all the bad guys. After a while, and too many cops-and-robbers documentaries on TV, you decide that getting shot at is a bit much for a days work.

You can draw, not too badly either, and when you’re fifteen and high on pot, avoiding revising for your exams and hiding your bad report-cards under your mattress, a job where you just draw all day and inhale paint fumes seems like the best thing for you.

After that you discover hip-hop. And a rapper, that is what you want to be. You start a band, only you can’t really sing, and your bassist is too caught up in his school work to make it to more than one practice.

You don’t exactly fail school, but you could have done a lot better. And when you leave your band falls apart. In a last act of teenage rebellion you apply for art school – might as well follow one of your past dreams.

You’re good. But, not that good. Sure, you could open a gallery and amp up the price of your paintings and make a couple of hundred bucks, but you’re not sure that’s what you want to do anymore. And at the age of twenty one you find yourself once again directionless.

You might as well be fifteen again. This could be any day from your high school past.

Your dad’s friend runs a call centre in downtown Los Angeles, and they’re hiring. You need to know how to use a computer and a phone. You need to be polite and be flexible when it comes to working hours.

As far as you know, only your Japanese grandfather doesn’t know how to use a phone, and you’re a whiz at the computer even if it is only for hacking accounts on adult sites and downloading free porn.

And you’re as polite as they fucking come.

“Now, all the data is held in a spread sheet,” says the guy with ‘Buster’ stuck to his name tag. You’re not paying attention, wonder what kind of parent calls their kid Buster. In the background he drones on, telling you what to do if the computer crashes. From experience, you’ve learned that kicking it solves everything, but doubt that’ll go over too well here.

“If it’s something you can’t fix for yourself our technician, Rob, is right in that room,” He points to a closed door with no windows or signs a few feet from your cubicle. “If he isn’t in there he’ll probably be hanging around somewhere.”

“How will I recognise him?”

“He’ll be the one who isn’t talking.”

***

Within a week your computer breaks down four times. You’re sick of apologising to customers who drum their fingers on the phone in agitation and swear and, on a few occasions, simply hang up when you say “This’ll just take a minute” and then disappear under your desk to fiddle with the wires.

That’s where you are when a low voice asks, “Need a hand?”

You jump up so quick your hit your head on the underside of your desk and swear slightly. When you peer out from underneath the guy standing there is someone you’ve never seen before.

He’s hot.

He’s wearing black pants, shoes, a button down white shirt and a blush that reaches his neck. “S-sorry,” he stammers, shifting his weight.

“It’s cool,” you reassure him, “Nothing like a concussion in the morning.”

He’s hot. Oh god. Breathe.

“Want me to take a look at that?” He asks, digging his hands in his pockets. He looks nervous, probably it’s because you’re on your knees with your head in line with his crotch – most guys get a little freaked out about then when they don’t even know your name.

You blurt out, “I’m Mike,” then want to physically hurt yourself for becoming a bumbling idiot. You laugh, try to ease the tension, “And yes, I’d love you to take a look at it.”

He smiles at you and shimmies around where you still kneel on the floor, dropping to his knees beside you and reaching behind the computer, “I’m Rob,” he says, “We’ve never met, have we?”

Rob? The Rob? The technician? In your mind he had been the kind of guy who tucked his shirt into his belly-warming pants, pens clipped to his pocket protector, gap-toothed, braces, the typical dork. But this guy, he is one of the cutest people you’ve seen for too long.

He looks up and catches you staring, blushes and pushes his glasses up on his nose, “So, you like it here so far?”

You smile at him and nod, “Yeah, when the equipment works that is.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Rob says to you, plugging something back in and pushing the computer back up against the wall. He doesn’t get to his feet, though, and neither do you. The pair of your just stay there, kneeling in your cramped cubicle, too close for comfort but not caring. Eventually he says, “Things are always breaking around here.”

“Well, I know who to call now.”

The air between you is tense, hot and awkward. You could cream your pants, right there and then, but your phone rings and you know it’s some ratty assed customer ready to bitch and kill your boner with their whiny, nasal tone blaming your for all the wrongs in their life.

Rob clears his throat awkwardly and gets to his feet, brushing down his pants, “I’ll let you get back to it then,” He smiles, and before you can say anything else he’s disappeared.

***

You don’t see Rob for weeks, no matter how long you hang around the water cooler or the vending machine, wasting time and money but dying to spot him.

And your computer has decided that it works perfectly now – no faults at all – and all you want to do is put your fucking foot through the damn thing.

You’re busy staring into space and ignoring your phone which has been ringing none stop for ten minutes when your realise – he doesn’t need to know it’s working fine. You could always lie.

With a brief grin to yourself and how brilliant you are you push yourself out of your chair, stretching as you head to Rob’s office and knock on the door. He opens it after a while and blinks at you behind his glasses with a smile, “Hey, Mike, what can I do you for?”

“My computer…broke,” you lie, badly, and step into the room, closing the door behind you.

Rob steps back, looking a little confused, “Okay?” he laughs, “What’s really going on?”

When he smirks playfully at you, how can you not kiss him? No amount of self control could have stopped you. Reaching out with one hand you grab a fistful of his smart shirt, tugging him closer and pressing your lips to his. Part of you expects to get punched, but the other is too busy enjoying it to care.

Rob freezes for a second but relaxes, dropping his hands to your waist where they rest gently, setting your body on fire. His lips part and your tongue touch and it’s hard to tell who moans.

He pushes you up against the door, locking it with one hand and sliding the other under your shirt to stroke your back. Your break the kiss long enough to ask, “Do you wanna…you know?”

And Rob, he just nods breathlessly and presses himself flush against you, kissing you messily.

***

You meet up more and more after that, sneaking into Rob’s office or making out under the desk in your cubicle, everybody too wrapped up in their own world of loud complaints and bitchy customers to notice.

One day you’re walking past the bathroom when someone grabs you and pulls you in. Of course it’s Rob, and his mouth is hot and on yours instantaneously. He pulls you into a stall and shoves a hand down the front of your pants, wrapping around your cock and stroking you until you’re hard.

You drop your head back and moan, gasping when he kisses your neck and drops to his knees, unbuttoning your pants and pulling them down enough to wrap his mouth around your cock. “Oh god,” you moan, lacing your fingers through his soft hair as he flicks his tongue against you, “Oh Rob.”

He hums around you, pulling away enough to lap at the head, his fist wrapped tight around the base. Against the underside he whispers, “Want to go on a date with me, Mikey?”

You look down and meet his eyes, dark with lust, and how can you say no?

“I’d love to,” you murmur.

And Rob says, “I’ll email you.”

“Fucking geek,” you laugh, but he wraps his mouth around you again, and all you can do is moan.


End file.
